The Faded Portrait
The memo lay flat on the steel desk, its corners curling slightly where the air conditioning vent blew. It was a standard Bureau directive, Form 14-C, stamped with the red ink of finality. Elias Thorne read it twice, his fingers tracing the grain of the paper. He needed to finish the Silent Ward catalog by Friday to secure his pension. Twenty years of silence, of sorting the dead into boxes,...
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